


A Fate of Feathers

by The_Tardis_Queen



Category: The Witcher (TV), The Witcher (TV) RPF, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bisexuality, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Magic, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24324034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Tardis_Queen/pseuds/The_Tardis_Queen
Summary: Magic, monsters, and majesty were never meant to go hand in hand. However, when a woman who possesses all three exposes a plot that threatens to topple an empire, how long can a throne last when its built on top of a pile of feathers? How far can you go to change your fate when it's been written in the stars? (Geralt/F!OC) (Geralt/Yennefer)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

The silent streets of Fisherman’s Reach held their breath, as if waiting for whatever the night would bring. Petrichor hung heavy in the humid darkness, the scent of damp soil and sand piggybacking in the wind as the lone rider approached the small settlement. Cats who milled about, homeless or otherwise, watched the rider approach, ears twitching as hair stood up on the back of neck, growls and hisses growing into a cacophony of cries and howls as the felines darted back into the shadows of the buildings that lined the streets.

The horse the figure rode nickered at the sound and a gloved hand reached down to pet the mount’s neck reassuringly, “Easy, Roach.” A gravelly voice pierced the eerie silence, a pair of bright yellow eyes watching the road ahead, drifting towards the large keep on the hillside. He urged the horse towards the gates, the braziers before him lit to show him the way, the light allowing the sentinels who stood watch to catch a glimpse of the satchel at the man’s side. The burlap was soaked in crimson and behind the rider, a trail of gore followed.

“What’s your business here?” One of the guards questioned, eyeballing the man’s yellow gaze, “We don’t see many Witchers this side of the Auriel Mountains.”

“Got word of a contract and I just came to get my reward.” The man replied in the same gravelly voice, calm and level, “Is Lord Northwood here?”

The guard nodded, motioning towards the interior of the keep, “Aye. He’s here, but it’s quite late.”

The Witcher didn’t answer, choosing merely to allow the humid night to fill in the silence. Finally, the man sighed, his shoulders sagging, “I cannot say no to the requests of a Witcher.” With that, he turned to his fellow sentinel, “Fetch Lord Northwood. Tell him that a Witcher is here to speak with him.”

The man nodded and then ushered for the man to follow, “He will meet you in the main hall, Sir.” The rider followed the guard through the empty courtyard, dismounting from his horse and following the man towards a pair of heavy double doors. Pushing the doors forward, the Witcher was greeted by a large grand hall, a massive table spanning the room. A man in a dressing gown stood at the other end of the room, sleep still heavy in his eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” He quipped, glaring at the man.

The Witcher did not respond, but instead took the satchel that had been at his horse’s side and dumped its contents onto the table, the basilisk head tumbling from the burlap, its tongue lolling to the side as it came to a stop.

“Killed your basilisk,” The man said, “Just here for my reward.”

The man sat down at the table, looking from the serpentine head to the ashen haired man at the other end of his hall. Finally, he nodded and interlaced his fingers, furrowing his brow, “And I’m sure you read the fine print of the contract, correct?”

The man frowned and pulled the creased piece of paper from his pocket, the paper smudged with blood and sweat. There, at the bottom, in fine print, a sentence lay against the flat surface, barely legible.

“Must complete second bounty to be contractually binding.” The man read aloud, looking back up at the Lord at the head of the table who wore a small smirk on his face. “Witchers don’t take kindly to false advertising.”

“Lords don’t take kindly to threats.” He retorted, motioning for the rider to sit, “Maybe you should sit. I’m sure you rode quite a way to come all the way from Wolfsbane Ridge.”

The Witcher paused, but finally took the man’s invitation, sitting at the table, a servant appearing from the shadows to fill a goblet at his elbow, “May I ask for the name of my host and my contractor?” The ashen haired man asked, raising the wine to his lips and swallowing deeply.

“Baron Bastian Northwood. No need to tell me your name, Witcher. You are already well known, even this far north. I am just surprised that someone of such cavalier would come heed our desperate pleas.”

The Witcher shrugged and swallowed the rest of the wine, “Coin’s coin,” He replied nonchalantly, “You said Northwood. You aren’t related to Titus Northwood, are you?”

The Lord’s face tightened when he heard the name, “I am of the same house, yes. He is my father.”

“A house in ruin, last time I checked,” The Witcher said mildly. The man stood suddenly; his cheeks very rosy.

“You tread a dangerous line, Geralt of Rivera!” He snapped angrily, his guards stepping forward.

The Witcher merely crossed his arms over his chest, his golden eyes glancing over at the sentinels, “Easy, Baron. I meant no offense; I was just merely making an observation. I’m just surprised your family has this kind of coin to throw around.” He pointed at the bounty on the bottom of the poster, the warrant proudly displaying a 30,000-crown reward.

Bastian leaned back and sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly, “The fact of the matter is Witcher, I have a witch I need killing. She has been wreaking havoc on the local villagers for about seven years, setting up camp in the old village in the mountains. She can call upon beasts and monsters, making the descend on this place. She is a menace and must be stopped!” With this, he slammed his hand on the table.

“Darling?” A quiet voice echoed through the hall and both men turned to see a woman standing at the doorway, her eyes heavy with sleep and her belly swollen with pregnancy. She was young with long mousy brown hair and drab features, puffy with sleep, “What’s going on?”

“Margaret, go back to sleep. Don’t come in here, the sight will only upset you,” The Baron stood and ushered the woman back to the darkened hallway. Geralt stood when his guest had left, looking around the hall. The portrait of the two above the massive fireplace was made of newer pigments, the colors much more vibrant than he was expecting. She was a decently new edition to Bastian’s life. His mind returned to the witch in question, thinking about what Bastian had mentioned. He had heard of witches turning to backwater towns to become herbalists and apothecary owners, but rarely did ones so powerful escape the Lodge’s gaze to go raise Cain through a small village, especially one who could call on monsters as if they were familiars.

Finally, his host returned, smiling intently at Geralt, “Now, where were we? Ah yes, the witch. She unfortunately has a Griffon she keeps with her at all times, so you’ll have to strike that beast down before you can get to her, but that shouldn’t be much of an issue for you.”

Geralt shook his head in disbelief, “First you make me kill a basilisk, then you ask me to kill a witch, now you ask me to kill a Griffon? What’s next? A damned Wyvern?!”

Bastian’s mouth turned up into a wry smile, “No, Master Witcher. I do not believe she has a Wyvern up there with her. Now, do you accept the contract or no?”

Geralt glanced up at the painting once again, sighing deeply before looking back at the man who sat before him, “Fine,” He replied, “I’ll go kill your damned witch.”

Bastian nodded in approval, “I and my growing family thank you, Witcher. She has been a damned thorn in the side of Fisherman’s Reach since her arrival. Only in the past six months or so has she been making her presence known again, sending her beasts prowling through the streets after the sun sets. My father has sent hunters from the Church after her of course, but they are but fodder to her bouts of power.”

“I will have to consult my contacts at the Lodge, see if they’ve heard anything about this witch who can control beasts like dogs.” Geralt replied, standing and watching Bastian’s body language turn sour. He bristled at the mention of the Lodge, wrinkling his nose as if he had bitten into a lemon.

“Must you contact those foul sorceresses? Bad enough we already have one witch in this mess.” He spat angrily as Geralt arched an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’m surprised that you’d turn down the help. I know you’d do anything to keep your family safe.” Geralt replied mildly as the man sighed in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Fine, do whatever you will, Witcher. Contact your friends at the Lodge and ask them about this woman, I do not care. Just solve this damned problem and kill this woman before she razes this place to the ground.”

Geralt nodded and without another word, departed the keep, descending the hill and beyond the town, making camp in the scruffy underbrush close to the road. Sitting at the fire that he had built up into a steady, hearty burn, he tried to reach out to whatever plane of existence Yennefer of Vengerberg may have been existing on at that moment in time.

Maybe he would get lucky and she would hear his voice and come to him in a dream. While it was a nice sentiment, Geralt doubted he would get that lucky, so with wine from the flask in his belly and a fire at his front, he laid down to rest, the thought of witches on the forefront of his mind, completely unaware of the eyes of the forest beyond the scrub brush that watched him.

In another time, in another place, the ashen haired man wandered through a market. Nobody stopped to make purchases, but instead chose to hurry by, hiding their faces as they passed, creating a façade of anonymity. However, as his eyes scanned the faceless crowd, they landed on the figure of one woman, dressed all in black and white. Her garb was simple, her dark hair worn loose around her face. She knelt to smell a flower that hung low in a wicker basket, standing as the Witcher approached.

“You called for me?” She questioned coolly, turning her violet eyes to the man, “I had some important business I was attending to that I had to drop, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re super important these days,” Geralt said impatiently, “I need to ask you a question.”

Yennefer stood at her full height and held out her arms, “Well, here I am, ask away. What can I help you with that’s so important?”

“Was there ever a sorceress that you heard of that had the ability to manipulate monsters? Griffons and wyverns and the like?”

Yennefer furrowed her brow and bit her lip, “I’ve heard of such sorceresses in the Far East, but it’s extremely rare, even in witches. One came through about fifteen years ago, but since we were in such turmoil, I hardly got to know the ones who had just come through. She was powerful though, but I heard she was prone to fits of madness. They had found scrolls that would help her control Wyverns.”

“What ended up happening to her?” Geralt questioned as Yennefer picked up the flower, examining it like it was the most interesting thing in the world, turning it from petal to petal, tracing each delicate detail with her finger.

“Dunno,” Yennefer admitted, allowing the flower to fall from her fingers nonchalantly, “She came one day and left the next. Not sure what happened to her, but I assumed she had gone to some lord’s court. Either that or started her own dragon cult.” Yennefer chuckled at her own joke.

Geralt glanced around impatiently and Yennefer scoffed indignantly, putting her hands on her hips in annoyance, “You drag me all the way out here and this is the thanks I get?”

“Well, do you have anything else about her? Anything else…useful?” Geralt prodded as Yennefer scoffed again, shaking her head.

“You are getting on my last nerve, Geralt of Rivera, and my day has yet to begin.” Yennefer quipped before muttering something under her breath, leaving Geralt in a hazy, groggy fog as he awoke.

Shaking himself awake, he restoked the fire and shook himself awake, eating a quick piece of bread to stave off the rumbling in his belly. After warming his bones, he stood, mounted Roach and took off back into the mountains from where he came, instead taking a left, heading deeper into the spires and cliffs that ascended towards the sky.

Riding towards the crooked flora, the path became narrow, the trees crowding in on either side of the Witcher. The rain had begun to fall, creating a gentle whisper across the forest that masqueraded not only his footsteps, but the footsteps of those who watched him.

The blow hit him before he had the chance to react. He was knocked from Roach when lighting crackled across the sky, disguising his attacker. Instantly, Geralt went into defense mode, whipping his steel sword from its sheath with a rippling rasp and raising it as the following thunder echoed through the woods. He heard the creature shriek, recognizing the cry of a Griffon almost immediately. 

“Not now,” He snarled under his breath as he prayed Roach hadn’t gone too far. His steel blade would only would the creature so much. To finish it off, he would have to use his silver weapon which was currently attached to his horse.

The Griffon went to attack again, going in and diving low as Geralt jumped out of the way, quickly jumping back and striking the beast as it swirled around him. It yelped in pain and soared back in a circle, going in for another attack. As it swept back in for another ambush, another bolt of lightning rippled across the sky, catching the milky white blankness of the Griffons eyes.

This time, Geralt was ready. He held up his hand, ushering a fireball from his hand, burning the creature in the face. It howled in agony and was forced to retreat into the canopy. The Witcher was allowed to catch his breath for a moment before continuing up the mountain, whistling for Roach. He knew that the Griffon could had fought harder. It had been holding back and he had no idea why. For a witch who could control monsters, he had expected the road to be littered with obstacles, but besides the Griffon, he hadn’t seen a single one.

The remains of old the old village came into view, the bones of dilapidated houses sticking from the mud and puddles. Only one home remained intact, a small candle burning in the window as a beacon. Geralt did not know if this was meant as a beacon meant for him or for someone else, but he approached the window slowly, his Witcher Senses on full alert. He could hear no one in the house, but instead, heard the rustle of feathers as he approached.

Peering in the window of the home, he noticed a large tawny owl watching him warily in the corner, her feathers standing on end. From the owl, his gaze traveled to the rest of the home. A fire blazed in the hearth. Herbs dried from the beams overhead. A bed was made neatly in the corner. Two cups sat on a table. Geralt noted all of these things with great precision, never taking notice of the figure who silently approached him in the darkness, staff gripped firmly in one hand.

“Do not move Witcher, or I will be forced to end your life.”


	2. A Meeting

Geralt slowly dropped the sword he held and held up his hands as he felt the cool end of a staff be placed on his shoulder.

“The Witch of Fisherman’s Reach, I presume?” He asked, not bothering to turn around. The woman did not respond, but Geralt heard the padding of paws behind him, claws sinking deep into the mud. “That your Griffon?”

“You burned her,” She replied mildly, “Seraphina doesn’t like you.” Her voice was thick and accented, dripping from her vocal cords like honey as she spoke, “And to answer your question, yes. I am she.”

The rain pattered against the ground as Geralt glanced to his left, trying to gauge the distance between him and Roach, who seemed nonplussed by the whole situation. The silver sword hung from the saddle bag about 20 feet away. The staff dug deeper into his neck. “I wouldn’t if I were you, Geralt of Rivera.” The woman snarled, the bones clacking against each other as she moved.

The Witcher smirked in spite of himself, “So, you know my name, but you don’t have the common courtesy to tell me yours.”

She paused, thinking for a moment, “If I let you up, do you promise not to kill me?” 

“Witcher’s honor.”

He could hear the humor in her voice when she spoke again, “That’s not much to go on.”

“I don’t have much more to offer you,” He admitted as the staff was lifted from his shoulder, instead replaced by the rain.

“You make a fair point,” The woman said as he got to his feet and turned, hand still on the hilt of his sword. To his surprise, a petite woman with hair that blended into the darkness stood before him, her feet bare and her amber eyes dancing in the darkness. “I am Lilith. Can I offer you some tea?”

She turned and motioned him into the small hut, her left sleeve hanging limply at her side. Now that he could see her in better light, he could see that there was no appendage in the cloth, the empty barrier swinging to and from. Geralt followed her into the cottage and motioned to the vacant sleeve. The woman arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips, “You are a nosy Witcher.”

She pushed one of the mugs on the table towards him. The scent of lavender, honey and juniper met his nose, tantalizing his frozen, mud encrusted body. “It’s not poison, is it?”

The woman took a seat across from him and sipped at her own tea, watching him with her strange amber eyes. Geralt noted that witches always had the strangest colored eyes. From Yennefer and her bright violet irises to Triss and her own crimson hypnotic gaze. Now a pair of amber eyes, glittering in the firelight stared back at him, speaking of sands of a far off land and a place that Geralt had only yearned for in his wildest dreams. “Geralt, if I had wished to kill you, I would have done it in your sleep.”

“You watched me while I was sleeping?”

“ _Oui._ I have eyes everywhere. No, I keep a cup for my midnight visitors. The ones who feel the need to try and best Seraphina.”

“Is she your familiar? Never met a sorceress with a Griffon as a familiar.” Geralt asked, sipping at the tea. The scent of juniper overpowered the lavender and he wrinkled his nose, “Got anything stronger?”

The witch gave him a wry smile, “If only I had some of Toussaint’s finest of offer you, but alas, I seem to be fresh out.”

“You’re from Toussaint?” Geralt questioned, pushing the tea away, still not completely convinced that it wasn’t poisoned.

She stood from her chair with a bitter little laugh, “Why Witcher, perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Lilith Dupont, only daughter of Jacque and Isla Dupont, Marquee and Marquess of the Beauclair.”

“I…” He began to say before the woman waved a nonchalant hand.

“Please, hold your comments,” She said mildly, “I’ve heard them all.”

“Am I allowed to ask any questions?”

“Questions are allowed, yes.”

“How did the daughter of a Marquee end up on the top of a mountain?”

Lilith turned her gaze to the fire, the embers dancing in the orange sunset of her irises, giving it a small, sad smile, “That is a long and complicated answer. Bastian sent you, correct?”

“How do you know Bastian?”

She turned back to him, sitting back down, watching him intently, “He didn’t tell you, did he? He is my husband. Was my husband? I do not know anymore. He ran me from that backwater town and I’m sure told the world I was dead and gone.”

“How long ago was that?”

Lilith bit her lip, pondering the question, “I left The Lodge almost ten years ago and we arrived here almost two months later. I spent five years in Fisherman’s Reach and five years here.”

“How have you survived this entire time?” 

She shot the man sitting across from her a look, “A woman still has her ways in this world. I can manipulate creatures to search the skies and the seas to bring me things I can use for either trade or in my own life.”

“You control them?”

A wry smile crossed Lilith’s lips, “Not entirely. It’s more of a manipulation of their natural instincts. Most creatures have a very primitive way of thinking. Food, sleep, protection, reproduction, the like. You control that balance; you control the beast. Think of it that way. The more intelligent the creature, the more difficult it is to manipulate.”

“The Griffon though...” Geralt began to ask as Lilith glanced out the window, as if looking for it, “That’s not your familiar?”

She shook her head as she sat back down, sipping her tea, “No. Seraphina is an old friend. She and I used to find each other when we were children. You could say we even grew up together.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow, “You actually believe that you grew up with a Griffon?”

Lilith narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, “Not literally, you dim witted ape. You would not understand. She…” The witch struggled to find the words, “We share eyes. I can see the world through her gaze.”

“So, when I was fighting her earlier…” Geralt began to ask, remembering the strange milky eyes of the Griffon from earlier, “That was you?”

Lilith nodded to confirm his suspicions, “I use her to see the world from a different view. I use the will of rodents to gather intel. Tell me Witcher, have you ever heard _of Le Seau des Ravageurs?”_

“I can’t say I have.”

“It’s horrible. In the common tongue, it roughly translates to “bucket of rats.” They bring out a prisoner and strap a bucket, open side down, of rats to his or her chest. Normally, it’s a prisoner of war, but it could be anyone they want to interrogate or just torture. They then hold a torch on the bucket and those rats have nowhere to go but the person’s soft flesh. All those little teeth in skin and muscle and bone. It’s not pleasant sounding, is it?”

Geralt furrowed his brow before looking around the room, reassuring himself there were no rats waiting in the bannisters for him, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I can manipulate all those little rodent brains, just remember that.”

“For a woman who asked me not to kill her earlier, you’re making a very poor argument for yourself,” Geralt said mildly, glancing out the window, “So, why shouldn’t I kill you?”

She followed his gaze to the window, the storm calming to a dull rumble in the distance, “I have done bad things in my life, Witcher. But nothing worthy of the death that had been bestowed upon me, I can promise you of that.”

“You said you and Bastian were married?” Geralt asked, making the woman’s lips turn up into a bitter smile.

“Yes, I suppose we were. We even had a daughter together. She shared my gifts. He...killed her and I tried to bring her back, hence…” She nodded down at her missing limb, “Her body was broken, but I was able to bring her back in my familiar. I think you two met earlier.” She nodded to the owl that Geralt had seen earlier. The bird still watched him with its tawny gaze, never breaking its eye contact. “However, that was five years ago and the reason I am out here. I’m sure Bastian just wants to finish off what his father started.” 

“Bastian only said his father was Lord Titus Northwood, he never said anything about a daughter or another wife.”

The woman furrowed her brow and leaned forward, “What all has Bastian told you? I’ve never actually sat down with one of the men he’s sent to kill me. This is interesting.” 

Geralt shrugged, “I’d love if you’d set the record straight. It’s not often I get to sit down with any of my contracts and talk things out.”

“More tea?”

“No, thank you.”

The woman shrugged and poured herself another cup, pondering as she leaned against the hearth, “I married Bastian for his father’s sake. His father fell from power after he slept with the wrong nobleman’s daughter and that’s how Bastian was born. My father, of course, couldn’t say no to his brother in arms. Of course, with a dead wife and his “mad” daughter shipped off to the Lodge, he could remarry and produce a respectable heir.”

“Your father never did remarry, did he?” Geralt noted as she blew on her tea. Lilith frowned and shook her head.

“Not unless he remarried and had children in the past ten years, but his one true love was always my mother. She was just wild enough for him, even with her madness. At the point I left for the Lodge, I was already experiencing madness so they contacted my mother’s people from beyond the Korath desert. They hadn’t seen the magic since before my own mother’s bloodline, so of course they wanted to help me. Courts from all corners of the known world began a bidding war and my father drew me away when the scandal hit.”

“What happened?” Geralt asked.

A small bitter smile crept to her lips as she looked from her cup to her midnight visitor, “Like father, like son.” She replied with anger in her words, “He raped a young woman, she bore a bastard, and to keep it hush-hush, Titus had the wedding kept in secret and shipped both of us off to Fisherman’s Reach. Of course, I couldn’t keep a baby in my belly because of my own magic trying to kill me so he lashed out.”

“Were there more incidences? Were there more women involved?

She scoffed angrily, “Yes! I couldn’t keep ignoring the little bastards running around the castle. I tried to be a good wife, I truly did. I wanted to put a baby in me and I finally did. When I found out that I was finally with child, I thought he would be happy. Truth be told, at that point, I think he loathed me. Every time he looked at me, all he saw was his prison.” 

“Our daughter Ingrid was everything I hoped she would be. Smart, gorgeous, and incredibly gifted. I knew she would surpass me in everything I could hope for, train a new generation of sorceresses in our art.” She turned back to Geralt, her gaze hard, “Bastian drinks heavily. When my daughter was 5, he attempted to take my life. She attempted to defend me and he killed her in a drunken rage.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said simply as Lilith gave him a simple nod, sipping at her tea, averting her gaze, “As much as I sympathize, you know I can’t let you stay here.”

Lilith shot him a glance, “I’m well aware. I don’t plan on staying here. I’m going back to Toussaint and reclaiming my title as Marquess. However, I do insist on hiring your services, Witcher.

Geralt groaned, “Great. Look, Witchers don’t do politics.”

She laughed lightly, a sound like gently swaying bells, “There is paperwork in Bastian’s office I need to get to allow me to present my identity as the Marquee’s daughter. They are official and he will recognize them.”

“I think you should return to the Lodge of Sorceresses, continue your training,” Geralt countered, frowning.

“Regardless of where I go, I need these papers to allow me to return freely to Toussaint,” She replied coolly, “Either I will go myself and risk being caught and the house of Dupont falls, or I have a Witcher escort and exceed exponentially. I am not doing anything illegal, they are my papers, no?”

Geralt closed his eyes, weighing the pros and cons in his mind. On one hand, she wasn’t wrong. The papers were hers by birthright and by holding them, she could not return to Toussaint. On the other, like he had told Lilith earlier, Witcher did not deal in politics.

Finally, he turned to his sorceress host, “Very well, I will help you. What do you suggest for getting into the keep?” 

The woman gave him a wry smirk, “You are in luck. The Midsummer’s Eve is the largest festival in Fisherman’s Reach, with invitations sent to nobles far and wide. Of course, you will be the guest of honor for killing the infamous Witch of Fisherman’s Reach.”

“But I didn’t kill her,” Geralt replied as the woman rolled her eyes, ripping off the empty sleeve of her dress. With a flourish, she brandished a dagger, digging the tip of the knife into scar tissue. She then held the sleeve up to the fresh wound, coating it in blood.

“There. Give them this. Tell them once the witch was dead, the monsters descended like flies to a fresh kill.” She said with a nod, “Good luck, Geralt of Rivera. We will speak soon, yes?”

Geralt held up the bloody sleeve and turned to leave, opening the door and walking out into the mist. “Oh, and Geralt?” He turned to see the witch standing at the threshold, looking at him with a wicked smirk in her eye. “Remember the sharp little teeth.”

“Got it.” Geralt said as he mounted Roach and began his descent down the mountain, the thought of little rodent teeth fresh in his brain the entire way down.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The sun touched the hazy hills of Fisherman’s Reach as the town stirred, rising with the dawning light. The Witcher approached the halls of the keep. He didn’t have to ride long to meet Bastian who waited impatiently for news just outside the double doors.

“Well?” He asked briskly, stepping forward as Geralt dismounted and produced the blood-soaked sleeve from his dress, giving it to the man.

“She was asleep when I caught her. One of my colleagues at the Lodge told me how best to kill her and I took her by surprise. The beasts she held at bay descended like flies to a fresh kill and I was just lucky enough to get from her corpse to prove that the deed had been done.”

Bastian nodded slowly, turning, motioning for the Witcher to follow, “She was such a thorn in my side. She was my wife once, you know. She went mad and fled into the hills. I’m sorry I did not burden you with the knowledge before, but I thought it best you not to know beforehand and it sway your decision.”

“Mmhmm,” Geralt replied nonchalantly, following the man into the hall. He sat at the table where he had been the night before, the woman sitting next to him now dressed and smiling. He nodded at her and she smiled and turned her gaze back her breakfast, cheeks turning rosy.

“Geralt, will you join us before you leave?” Bastian questioned, offering Geralt a seat at the table. The Witcher was never one to turn down free food, so sat and was instantly greeted with delicious smelling blood sausage dripping in a fatty gravy and beans. Silence followed as he began to eat.

“Bastian, it would be rude not to invite the Witcher to…” Margaret began to say as the Baron looked up from his meal and glanced over at the ashen haired man.

“My wife is correct,” He said, “It would be so very rude of us not to tell you of our town’s annual Midsummer Festival! It’s the biggest in the region and the witch has put a damper on it for so long…can I sway you to stay in the area and come be our guest of honor?”

Geralt nodded in confirmation, “I would be delighted to be your guest of honor at your festival. For now, I must return to Novigrad and take care of some business, but I will return.”

Margaret clapped like a child in excitement and then cleared her throat, trying to contain her composure. Bastian shot his wife a glance and she looked down at her place in dismay at being caught. He turned his attention back to Geralt and smiled tightly, “Now, let’s talk of your payment. I must speak to my father, but I will give you ten thousand gold pieces now. I should have the rest by the time of the Midsummer’s Festival so you should expect it then.”

“Then I shall take my leave. Thank you for your hospitality.” One of the Baron’s men stepped forward and dropped a sack of gold on the table in front of Geralt with a solid thump. He took it without pomp and circumstance and turned on his heel, walking from the keep and leading his horse from the village’s limits, back down the road and away from the sea.


	3. Three Paths and a Destination

Deep in the mountains, the woman with one arm sat in the cottage, fingers gripped in the tawny feathers of the her familiar, her eyes rolled back inside her sockets as she dared not breathe and break the connection. Her hair floated around her like inky seaweed, framing her pale face.

“Ingrid,” She whispered, “Are you there?”

She felt someone grip her wrist and she turned to see a child with uneven brown hair watching her with her own golden gaze sadly. The world around Lilith had changed, the cottage melting away into rolling hills of glistening yellow sand, etched by the relentless winds. The skies above mother and daughter glimmered with the cosmos in shades of pinks and oranges and blues that could only be found in the darkness of space. This was the world her mother spoke of before the madness claimed her life. The wildness of the space beyond the deserts feared by the Northerners, where dragons roamed free and humanity was truly one with monsters that roamed.

“Mum,” Ingrid’s voice was always a whisper here, “I saw it again, the stars.”

Lilith bit her lip so hard it drew blood. She knew that she would feel that after she ended this as well, “I know. He needs to hold out until I can get back to Toussaint. If he dies…” 

Ingrid took her mother’s good arm and the two began to walk through the sand, their feet bare. Only Lilith left footprints as they walked. “You will die as well.”

Lilith pursed her lips and looked up at the dancing nebulas overhead, “And they haven’t changed at all?”

Ingrid shook her head, “But look at that one, over there.” She pointed to one on the left-hand side of the sky and Lilith trained her eyes to the point. A bright red speck hung on the horizon, a sure sign of imminent death. She furrowed her brows and looked down at Ingrid.

“Who?” She asked, looking back at the star. The little girl shrugged and shook her head.

“I can only read the stars; I can’t give you specifics.” Ingrid said, glancing back up at the space above their heads. “That man, maybe?”

Lilith shot the little girl a look, “I don’t think so. There’s more to this enigma we must uncover before we unveil the truth,” With that, she kneeled down and used the back of her hand to wipe away sand from the ground, revealing a glimmering stone that had been hiding under the tawny desert silt. Unfortunately, with a soft sigh, the wind whisked the sand right back into its original position, hiding the jewel. Lilith grumbled in frustration and turned to face her daughter, “What should we do now?”

The small girl held her hand up to the stars, tilting her head as she looked, “I’m not sure.” She admitted after a long silence, “I can’t see past the red star.”

Lilith ran a hand through her hair and sighed deeply, looking back up at the sky. The star hung in the night like a bad omen, blood painting the darkness. It could be anyone at this point in the game that they knew next to nothing about. “And the Witchers? You don’t know anything about their part?”

The child shrugged, “If I knew anything about it, I would have told you.”

Lilith pursed her lips, “I know you would have, but it doesn’t make any less frustrating.”

Ingrid looked back at her mother, her hair whipping in the breeze. The two looked less alike than Lilith would have cared to admit, the two only truly sharing their eyes and hair color. The rest belonged to her father, down to her strong cheek bones and pale complexion. However, irises like an amber fire shone out amongst the uneven hickory locks that danced in the wind that connected mother and daughter throughout time and space. “You must return now. You have spent far too long in this space and you know how Grandmother gets.”

“Your grandmother is a jealous old hag,” Lilith teased, glancing behind her daughter quickly, “But I do believe you are right.” Leaning down, she hugged her daughter tightly, “Be safe, my love. Keep watching the skies.”

“Keep watching the skies.” Ingrid whispered back, gripping her mother tightly. The world around Lilith faded into darkness as the two separated and reality faded back into view. Taking a deep breath, she released her fingers from the feathers of the owl and sighed deeply, closing her eyes and shaking off the haze from her trance. She glanced down to make sure Ingrid’s form was still breathing and smiled softly when she saw the owl was moving.

“You’re okay, my love.” She murmured, pressing the ruffled feathers down. The stump where her arm had once been throbbed fiercely as it often did when she came out of the shadow world where her daughter’s spirit resided. She leaned back against the table and sighed, grabbing a cup of water she had placed next to her, drinking deeply from the earthen ware. She looked out into the dawning morning and sighed, wondering what the star that her daughter had seen could have meant for the coming days.

\-------------------------------------------------

Three days later, Geralt slowed Roach to a crawl as he approached the cluster of huts that could hardly be called a village. However, the scent of lilac and gooseberries on the wind told him that the inn in the middle of the run-down village was his destination, so he approached the building. Opening the door, he saw Yennefer sitting at the bar, sipping at a mug of something or other daintily, her back turned to him.

“Did you find her?” She questioned, not bothering to turn to greet him.

“And a hello to you too,” Geralt replied, motioning for the barkeep to pour him his own mug, “And to answer your question, yes I did. Her name is Lilith.”

“Is she mad with power at this point? Has she started her own dragon cult up in those mountains?” Yennefer asked, taking a long drink from her mug.

“No, she hasn’t gone mad with power, but she is missing an arm. It also appears that she performed some sort of necromancy and put her daughter’s soul into the body of an owl and used it as some sort of trade.”

Yennefer smirked into her drink, “Clever little witch, but that doesn’t answer the question that I really want to know. Is she still sane up there?”

“For the most part, yes. She has this familiar Griffon creature that she keeps with her. Says that she must return to Toussaint to reclaim her title as Marquess. She asked me to escort her.”

Yennefer turned her violet gaze to Geralt for the first time since the two had first had their encounter, “And what did you tell her?”

“I told her she should return to the Lodge and resume her training,” He replied nonchalantly as the bartender placed the drink in front of the Witcher, turning silently from their conversation. To his surprise, his Sorceress counterpart merely remained silently, “I expected you to be the first to agree with me, Yen.” 

“Unfortunately, Geralt, there are wheels behind curtains that you cannot see. The Marquee Dupont has not been faring well and his health has been ailing him. The only person who holds any claim to that throne is that woman, Sorceress or not. In the courts, I have heard whispers of Titus Northwood trying to remarry into the houses of Toussaint, rise above the Dupont name.” 

Geralt waved a dismissive hand, “You know Witchers hold no sway in politics, Yennefer,” He said, taking a quick drink from his mug. The raven-haired woman shrugged and then lowered her gaze. A silence fell between witch and Witcher as the quiet inn swallowed the noise from outside.

“What did she suggest? I would not assume she would make it far without proper documentation, not with the Nilfgaardian armies tightening down on their securities as hard as they are.”

“The Midsummer Festival happens in four days.” Geralt responded, “She thought it would be best to sneak in and get the documents out then while the keep was full.”

Yennefer nodded, leaning forward slightly so that her elbows rested on the bar, “That seems like the smartest thing to do. Her arm will take some disguising, but if she’s any witch worth her weight in salt, she will have a trick up her sleeve…no pun intended.”

Geralt nearly chuckled at the joke, but merely drained the rest of his drink and stood from the wobbly stood, the wood scraping against the uneven floor. He threw a few crowns on the bar and nodded at the barkeep who hardly acknowledged the two as the walked from the establishment.

“You will help her, I assume?” Yennefer questioned as they crossed the threshold of the inn.

Geralt turned to face the mage, “You say you don’t have time for me one moment and then treat me as if I’m your dog running errands the next. What game are you playing at, Yennefer? What if this woman to you?”

Yennefer crossed her arms over her chest, took a deep breath, and looked across the barren fields, their crops long since dry. “Her magic is different, Geralt. She is the last of her kind. If she is alive and can be brought down from those mountains in one piece, she can be studied. But if the Northwoods gain power of Toussaint, they will kill her. Titus Northwood will make sure of that. They cannot know she is alive.”

“Isn’t taking her into Fisherman’s Reach doing just that?” Geralt demanded, “That will lead her straight into the den of lions!”

“Lilith needs those papers to get back to Toussaint,” Yennefer argued, “She needs to take her rightful place to fight back. If she doesn’t, they will kill her. Her magic will die with her.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, “This seems very selfish of you, Yen. One wrong move and she will get herself killed.” 

“She will have you with her, there will be no wrong moves.” She replied, “Once she’s regained her title, she will have no choice but to return to the Lodge and return to her training, it’s the only way forward.”

Geralt chose not to answer, instead returning to Roach and mounting his steed, not bothering to look at Yennefer, “I’ll go back and I’ll tell her what needs to be done, but I won’t tell her about the Lodge. Not yet.”

Yennefer pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips, “Then good luck with your task. I hear Toussaint is lovely this time of year. I will attempt to keep my ear to the ground and listen to hear if Northwood is on your tail.”

“Appreciate it, Yen.” With a kick, Roach was back down the road and back down the direction from which he had come, riding back towards the Auriel mountains.

\----------------------------------------------------

Margaret watched the fire in anticipation, wincing as she attempted to ride out another aching spasm. Her child writhed inside her like a monster again, trying to break out of her body yet again. She wished the damned thing would finally make its appearance. Closing her eyes, she leaned back into the bed and settled back and rubbed her swollen belly.

The noise of laughter and ruckus piggybacked off the wind and Margaret pulled herself from the bed, waddling to the window to peer down at the crowds that mingled at the gates of the keep. The Midsummer Festival wasn’t supposed to begin until sunset the next day, but the festivities had already begun, people already arriving from cities far and wide in anticipation.

“More young noble ladies for Titus Northwood to assassinate,” She had heard a maid whisper sarcastically in passing as she moved from corridors with her head down. That’s what her mother had always told her, keep your head down and you will hear all of the gossip. Margaret was not ignorant to the fate of the previous Baroness Northwood, privy to the idle chit-chat that had been spoken by the milkmaids and stable boys by the well to the north of the village.

If this was truly the doom of her predecessor, she had everything to fear from her upcoming delivery. The soothsayers swore up and down that she had nothing to worry about, the birth of her child would indeed be a boy. Of course, these were the same starry-eyed women who had told the former wife of Bastian that she too would have a male heir. 

A cold gust of wind cut through Margaret’s bones and her arms shot up to her shoulders as goose bumps erupted over her skin. Shivering, she turned from the window as a loud burst of laughter echoed through the hallway and the door burst open, revealing a very intoxicated Bastian.

“Darling!” He crooned, swaying slightly on his feet, “Why don’t you come down and enjoy the festivities?”

Margaret shook her head, a tight-lipped smile crossing her face, “I don’t feel well,” She replied, placing a hand on her round belly, “He’s kicking.”

With two long strides, Bastian was across the room, a firm hand on his wife’s own, “What a strong leader he will be, uniting so many houses under our name.” He smiled gently at her and tugged on her hand, “At least come down and see my father. He wants to greet you in the study.”

A gut wrenching feeling coursed through Margaret’s stomach, “I do not wish to keep his company tonight, Bastian…”

Like a cloud crossing the moon, Bastian’s face darkened, “My father asked for you specifically, Margaret. You will not keep him waiting.” With that, he gripped tightly onto her hand and she gasped in pain.

“Stop!” She snapped, “I’ll go, just don’t!”

Instantly, he let go of her hand and the same drunken smile returned to his face, “Oh my love, I would never hurt Micah.” With that, he leaned forward to kiss her deeply. Margaret felt dizzy from the fumes coming from his breath as he pressed his lips against her own, time crawling around them as he pulled away.

When he finally left the room and she had gotten her heart under control, she departed the bedroom and slunk through the corridors, ignoring anyone who would dare make eye contact with her. If she did her job right, they would believe she was just another maid, going about her business. Reaching the double doors of the study, she lightly rapped her knuckles against the wood and a deep voice commanded her to enter.

She pushed the doors forward, crossing the threshold into the dimly lit room. The study was cluttered, but cozy and Margaret had spent her first several months in Fisherman’s Reach pouring over the books that were held within this study.

Lord Titus Northwood sat in a sturdy, albeit worn leather chair, watching her with his hawkish eyes, “Hello, Margaret.”

She didn’t forget her manners, curtseying as well as her pregnant frame would allow her to, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Northwood?” 

He ushered her to sit in the chair across from him and she did so, “How are you feeling? You must be getting ready to give birth any day now.” 

She nodded and looked down at her hands, her fingers clasped within one another, “The soothsayers swear it’s a boy, M’Lord. They’ve seen the stars and…” 

He waved his hand in dismissal, “After the...disappointment of Bastian’s late wife Lilith, you’ll understand if precautions had to be taken to secure the bloodline of the Northwood family.” 

Margaret’s heart fell to her shoes. She knew the stories were true in her heart of hearts. She knew that her time had come and Titus Northwood would kill her where she stood, ready to sweep up another unfortunate woman to become his son’s bride.” 

As if reading her mind, Titus arched brow a wry smirk crossed his face, “My dear, I wish you no harm. No, the baby you hold in your belly will lead armies. After the death of my own late wife Constance and with no true heir to the Northwood line, I had to take matters into my own hands.” 

Margaret gnawed on her lower lip, wondering where the conversation was going. She knew of Bastian’s heritage and the Northwood’s fall from grace at Titus’s own hand. As much as she hated the man, she felt bad that his birth and his upbringing had been one of neglect from an abusive, power hungry father, “What are you saying, Lord Northwood?” Margaret questioned, leaning forward as best she could on a swollen belly. 

“I have remarried, child.” He said slowly, as if the woman was stupid, “And the gods willing, I will put a baby in her belly and I will finally have a true heir who will carry on my name.” 

The words felt like a slap to the face to the woman. Here she was, being told that she and her child were being thrown away for a second chance for Lord Northwood’s heritage. Bastian be damned, she would not be treated this way.

“Play your cards right, my dear.” Her mother’s words echoed in her head and behind the lump forming in her throat, she managed to regain her composure. She swallowed noisily, looking down at her hands to keep the tears from falling. 

Finally, she looked back up and breathed deeply, “I am so very happy for you and your new wife, Lord Northwood.” She replied tightly, her voice strained. Titus could see the strain on her face and smirked. 

“I plan on telling Bastian tomorrow at the Festival, so do try and keep it under your hat until then, would you?” He asked, condescending mirth dripping off of every word. Margaret nodded silently and Titus merely waved his hand to indicate the conversation was over. 

She didn’t need to be told twice. Standing, Margaret rushed from the room, keeping her head down as she burst into the bed chambers, tears rushing down her face. Deep sobs echoed through the room as she ran her hands through her hair. She had thought that maybe her child would have a future as a Northwood. Unfortunately, with the news of Titus’s new wife and a planned child, her life seemed to be one trapped in Fisherman’s Reach with Bastian and her son, who may end up just like his father. 

Rushing to the window, Margaret’s heart pounded in her chest. Far below her, lanterns glimmered in the coming darkness, dotting the dusky twilight, glinting out as they bobbed behind trees and rocks. The ocean breeze that was carried off the sea sent a jolt of clarity through her mind. She would leave. She would return to her family and tell them of the horrors she had witnesses at the hands of Bastian. They may return her to his clutches, but she would just leave again, if just to make sure that she never saw the Northwood family again. 

‘I will return,’ Margaret thought to herself, wrapping her arm around her stomach, the crisp, tangy air churning the hair from the confines of her braid, slapping her face almost painfully, never knowing of the macabre chaos that would befall Fisherman’s Reach.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt slowed Roach outside the decrepit village, the echoing screeches of Seraphina bouncing off the mountains. Dismounting, he approached the remaining cabin, pausing outside the door. Dare he knock?

“You may enter, Geralt.” The accented voice broke through his thoughts as he pushed through the wooden barricade and stepped over the threshold. The overpowering smell of sandalwood and cinnamon tickled his nose as he entered the space, making him wince slightly. While Yennefer’s scent was familiar to him, the smell of lilac and gooseberries often wrapping him in a cocoon of comfort, the smell that enveloped the sorceress in front of him was forigen and primitive.

“Smells strange,” He said finally, his gaze landing on the woman who leaned over a small cracked hand mirror. The creature that stood with his back to him was not the same woman that he had seen the week before. She wore a corset under a gossamer gown of midnight purple, the sleeves long enough to cover up a false arm that clung to her shoulder. Geralt wasn’t going to ask how in the world she had managed to lace up a corset with one arm nor did he particularly care, but was surprised by the transformation from woman of the woods into a woman of the high courts. Her dark brown hair had been swept back into a tight knot and her makeup was heavy.

“Bring me the mask off the table,” She quipped, nodding over at the black mask upon the wooden surface. The Witcher crossed the earthen floor and picked the object up, turning it over in his hands. Lilith held out her hand to accept the disguise and Geralt handed it to her wordlessly. She slipped it over her face and waited patiently for him to tie the lace strings behind her head.

“You were able to lace a corset with one arm, but you’re not able to tie your own mask,” Geralt said, breaking the silence with a teasing edge in his voice. A wry smile came to the sorceress’s lips.

“A woman does not reveal her secrets, Geralt. Now if you would be so kind.” She turned and Geralt reached around to tie the ends of the mask together. The scent of sandalwood was even stronger the closer he stood to her, making him feel drowsy as he looped the satin string tightly into her hair.

“There you are,” He said gruffly, stepping back and shaking his head. She turned to face him, clasping her false hand within her real one, smiling prettily at him. Her amber eyes flashed underneath a mask that covered most of her face, only her lips visible.

“Master Witcher, you shall refer to me as only Miss Ana of Marnmouth.” She said, walking towards the door, her skirts rustling as she walked, “I will not speak unless it is absolutely necessary. Once we are inside the keep, I will leave you to your own devices, but watch them. Make sure they do not come after me.”

Geralt thought back to his conversation with Yennefer. She was going into the lion’s den. “Wait.” He grabbed her good arm as she passed him and she turned to face him, fire in her eyes.

“Why do you intend to stop me?! This is my destiny!” She snapped angrily. The owl in the corner trilled angrily, “I must return to Toussaint.”

“You’re going into the belly of the beast, don’t do this. There has to be another way.” Geralt responded, “Let me go in alone.”

She shrugged her arm out of his grasp, “I am the only one who knows where the documents are being held, Geralt. If I don’t, Toussaint will be put in danger and will fall. There is no other way.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked out the door. With a final cry, the owl took off through the window, following her into the coming night.

Geralt sighed and ran a hand through his freshly washed hair. There was no arguing with witches, he knew this better than anyone else, so decided to follow her out into the cool mountain air. She was over by Roach, petting the horse gently, running her fingers through his mane. “You aren’t enchanting my horse, are you?” He asked, approaching her. She turned to him and pursed her lips.

“No need to,” She replied as the owl perched itself in a nearby tree, “Ingrid and Seraphina will stay close by in case we need them.” She said as Geralt mounted Roach and offered Lilith his hand. The wooden arm lay listlessly by her side as he helped her up, the execution less than gracefully. The sorceress wrapped her arm around his waist as they descended into the plains that led into Fisherman’s Reach, lanterns lining the fences that led from the woods to the town to welcome the warm days of summer. Men and women in varying masks milled about as vendors sold wares that celebrated the festivities from carts and stalls dotting the road every hundred meters or so. Music danced in the breeze as the duo approached the village, doors and windows open and welcoming to the summer months ahead.

“Keep your head down,” Geralt grunted as she tightened her grip around his waist, casting her eyes to the ground. The Witcher urged his mount forward, up the winding hillside that he had become so familiar with, the gates now wide and inviting. He slowed Roach to a crawl, two guards on either side approaching to take the horse.

“I’ll tie up my own horse,” Geralt snapped at the two guards as they stepped back, marveling at the raven haired woman who held her gaze to the ground.

“Who’s your friend, Witcher?” One of the guards questioned, trying to get a better look at the woman on horseback.

“None of your concern, gentlemen.” He responded curtly, glaring at the men so that they would back off. Finally, they did as such and walked back to their respective posts, still casting dirty glances at the pair.

“I draw too much attention,” She whispered, desperation and horror in her voice, “He will know it is me.”

“I will make sure nothing happens to you,” Geralt vowed, steering Roach towards the stables and dismounting, Lilith sliding from the saddle wordlessly, “Are you ready, Ana of Marnmouth?” He offered the woman his arm and with a small nod, she took it, the two walking from the stables and into the fray of the masses.

Instantly, people noticed them. The whispers began to swirl the moment they caught sight of Lilith’s amber irises, glittering in the light of the thousands of lanterns that swirled around her. For the first time since they had arrived in Fisherman’s Reach, the sorceress had the courage to look up.

Instantly, a fist of horror clutched her heart, the floodgates of her mind and memories opening for the first time in five years. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to keep the tremble from her step. Her sanity balanced on a tightrope in her mind, Seraphina’s eyes beckoning her like a lighthouse in a raging storm.

Geralt’s strong grip shook her back into reality, “Ana, you need to focus.” He snarled in her ear as she cleared her throat and shook her head, squaring her shoulders as she focused her eyes ahead. The Witcher was right. There was a task at hand that she needed to focus on and that was her ticket out of the mountains and out of the clutches of the Northwood family for good.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbled as they walked into the great hall where Geralt had met his guests on several occasions. However, now in the eaves echoed with drunken laughter and people spilled out of every corridor. He felt Lilith tighten her grip on him like a vice, hanging onto him as they moved through the throngs of people.

Suddenly, Geralt felt a hand on his back. He itched for his sword, but he had left it with Roach, thinking that it would look too suspicious if he had worn it into the part. He whirled around, ready to fight, but only saw Bastian and a tall, slender man that Geralt did not know.

“Ah, Geralt of Rivera!” Bastian swooned over the man, drunkenly teetering on his heels, “May I introduce you to my father, Lord Titus Northwood? He graced us with his presence this evening, all the way from our family’s keep in the East.

“M’Lord,” Geralt gave a little bow and the all three sets of eyes were drawn to the woman at his side who, alas, said nothing.

“Does your companion not speak, Geralt?” Bastian questioned, irritation clear on his face, “She is in the company of one of the greatest men in the Nilfgaardian Empire!” 

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, but Lilith squeezed his arm to keep him silent and slipped away from his side. To his surprise, she cocked her head to the side, pursed her lips to feign surprise and then began to speak in a very fast paced language that Geralt could only pick bits and pieces out of. Bastian was taken aback and wrinkled his nose.

“Where did you find this creature?” Bastian questioned, eyeballing the Lilith as if she was a piece of spoiled fish at market, “Disgusting woman. Truly Geralt, I thought you would have better sense than to bring Toussaint whores into our halls.”

“She was available and cheap,” Geralt replied with a shrug. Titus kept his gaze trained on the woman, sizing her up.

“Have we met before?” He asked her suspiciously.

She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brow under the mask, saying something in the same language. Titus shook his head and waved her away, turning on his heel and walking back into the throngs of people, obviously frustrated with his inability to pinpoint her identity. His son followed closely behind and finally, they disappeared into the crowds, allowing them to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I must go, before anyone else sees me,” She nodded to Geralt and with a small wave, she was gone, through the crowds, both masked and unmasked. She had done her job well, Geralt hoped.

He hated parties and he absolutely hated being a decoy for a plot, but here he was, helping yet another witch in peril. “Typical,” He scoffed to himself, walking towards the tables where wine flowed freely, and men and women drank their fill. Geralt filled a goblet and watched the riff-raff, the music even louder in the hall. Just as he was beginning to relax, a clammy, ice cold hand griped his wrist.

“Don’t turn around,” The hand’s owner hissed. From the sound of the voice and the size of the hand, Geralt could tell the person hold him was a woman, “If you want to keep your element of surprise, don’t turn around.”

Geralt did as the voice asked, “You have my attention. What do you want?” He asked, his voice hushed to meet that of his captor.

“Titus know that you snuck Lilith into the keep,” She said in a hushed whisper, “He figured it out right after she snuck away. I will go warn her, I know my way past his guards. You must get out. Arm yourself. Get to your horse. When I have her, we will meet you there. You must take me with you, Geralt of Rivera. Promise me that.”

Geralt hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, “You can come with us. She must go back to Toussaint.”

The voice was quiet for a moment, “I want to go home.” It replied finally, “Please take me home.” With one final squeeze, the hand was gone and Geralt was once again left on his own. He whirled around to see where Margaret had gone, but the woman was also gone. Shrugging it off, he did as she had asked and walked from the hall, veering off to the stables. Sure enough, the guards who had been milling about were gone. Geralt froze in his tracks, wondering if he should go back and help her.

“Get to your horse,” The voice said in his head as he carried on with the task and hand and began to prepare Roach to return to the road.

* * *

Lilith skulked through the hallways of the keep, trying to keep the swirling darkness of her mind at bay. She hadn’t walked these corridors since he had a child by her side. Ingrid’s hand should be in hers. They should have been happy together.

Gritting her teeth, she gripped at the wall, furrowing her brow in frustration. This was stupid of her to come back here. She belonged back in her little hut on the mountain with Seraphina and Ingrid.

“Wake up, you fool!” A jarring voice pierced through her thoughts and she found herself back in the halls, trying to catch her breath. The torches that illuminated her way, flickering in the breeze from the open windows. The scent of the ocean mingled with the fragrance of sandalwood and took her home to Toussaint, standing on the balcony with her mother when she was a child, watching the ships come to and from the sea.

‘You will return to the shore from where you came from,” Her mother had told her once upon a time, running her fingers through her long brown hair. From Toussaint she came, and from it she would return.

She continued her journey, pausing outside of rooms to make sure no one was there. The whispers she heard only came from passing servants moving through the walls between the honeycombed rooms. Lilith descended into the dank passages of the underbelly of the keep. She knew where the documents that would secure would be held. The torches grew further apart so she took one from the wall and continued.

The walls down here were stained with blood, dried and brown from thousands of fights and magic gone awry. Her connection to Seraphina was nonexistent here and she couldn’t escape. Finally, she found herself outside of a simple wooden door, the handle rusted and flaking away. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door forward and stepped over the threshold.

Memories of this room swirled around her, the light from her flickering torch illuminating the chains in the corner where she had spent so many nights in madness and the bones of the men who had been chewed away by the rats she had summoned in her insanity. What really interested her was the desk at the far corner of the room, so she stepped deeper into the space, the scent of mildew and neglect deep in her nose. 

Lilith placed the torch in the sconce on the wall and began to rifle through the drawers. Most was paperwork concerning her marriage to Bastian, but she knew hidden deep somewhere in that mess, she would be able to find it.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and her stomach lurch forward. Someone was in the room with her. In a second, she unsheathed the dagger she had strapped to her shin and lunged forward, sinking the dagger deep into the flesh of the intruder. In the light, Lilith watched as a heavily pregnant woman grasped at her belly in vain, horror and surprise in her eyes. The two women locked eyes, only for a split second realizing whom the other was. Lilith watched as Bastian’s second wife fell to the ground, her eyes darting around the room looking for any hope of survival.

“Please, I’m sorry…” The woman wept as Lilith approached her, “I just came to…” She breathed deeply, wincing as the life drained from her body, “Bastian is coming.”

Lilith ripped off her mask, the woman dropping to her knees in shame and guilt as she attempted to gather enough strength to help her, “I’m a witch, please, let me help.”

The woman merely grabbed her hand, sobbing as she spoke, “Please tell my family of me, Lilith. Take me home.”

“I’ll take you home, I promise, _mon cher_ ,” Lilith vowed, tears in her own eyes, “I’m so sorry, forgive me. I did not mean for any harm to come to you.”

The woman gave her a weak smile and choked out another sob, “You freed me from him. Thank you.” With one final shaky exhale, the light in her eyes disappeared. Lilith bit back a cry and stood on shaky legs, walking back over to the desk. She could hear the guards in the distance, but like her successor, she knew how to avoid being seen and knew there were many ways out of the dungeon for those who looked hard enough.

Finally, with a shaking hand, she found the small bundle of documents that would prove her identity as the daughter of Jacque Dupont. Tucking them into her dress, she removed the torch from the wall and walked back into the hall, walking swiftly towards the passage where she knew that Margaret had come from. She slid a bookshelf away from the wall, revealing a narrow staircase that ascended into the darkness. Taking one moment to glance behind her, Lilith stepped into the stairwell, using a small bevel to pull it closed behind her. The cries got louder when they found the dead woman, but Lilith kept her gaze focused on the steps ahead of her.

The lights of the festival greeted her as she pushed through a small opening into a small alcove of the garden that she had tried to keep to the best of her ability. She slipped past partygoers, trying to hide her bloody dress and hand. The wooden arm had slipped away while she had been dealing with her visitor and her sleeve hung limply. The mask had kept her true identity a secret, but now that her visage for out for the world to see, people would take notice.

She made it to the stables just as Geralt was walking Roach out. He took one look at her bloody dress and she shook her head, motioning for him not to ask questions. “Where’s Margaret?”

“She’s dead,” Lilith spat out, “I killed her. It was an accident.”

Geralt bristled, “Lilith, this is an act of war. The Northwoods could have your head for what you’ve done.” 

“I know,” She snapped, “That’s why we need to leave, NOW.” 

Geralt nodded wordlessly and mounted Roach. Lilith took his hand, the dress ripped from her excursion in the tunnels of the keep. She didn’t care anymore, let all the Northwoods know that Lilith Dupont had escaped their clutches and that she would return, seeking revenge on the wrongdoings bestowed upon her by this family.

“Run, Roach!” Geralt cracked the reins and with a whinny, Roach took off in a sprint, flying past the guards who tried to stop them as they pushed past like lightning into the forest until the darkness swallowed them whole.


	5. A Line in the Sand

“Hey, do you hear that?”

A scrawny man dangling in the trees elbowed his companion who stirred from his slumber, slowly coming to his senses as he yawned. “What do I hear, Wilfred?” He asked, stretching.

“Quiet!” The other man, Wilfred, hissed, “I hear travelers. The sound of hoofs!” 

Both men held their breath, listening to the wind for any sound on the wind. Sure enough, the whisper breath of a horse and the sound of hoofbeats could be heard in the distance. Sure enough, to his credit, the rustling of the underbrush could be heard shortly after.

“Travelers,” The other man breathed as the two scurried from the tree, quick as squirrels, “Ready your blade, Travis.”

Travis did as he was told, pulling his sword from his sheath and readying it for the coming fight. Wilfred did the same the thieves held their ground as a chestnut colored horse with two sullen passengers appeared on the road. One was a man with a shock of white hair that was pulled back, sporting a sword on his back. The other was a woman who clutched to the man with one arm, her eyes cast down.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Wilfred questioned, holding his sword up to show the travelers that they meant business, “Two lost souls out in the woods, alone at night?”

“Leave us be and we will let you go in peace.” The man said, his voice low and gravelly, “We mean you no harm.”

Travis barked out a laugh, “You seem to be confused, friend. You see, my friend and I have the advantage. You are at a total loss. Now, step off your fine horse and we shall be on our way.”

The woman on the back of the horse clutched the man’s shirt tighter and seemed to whisper something under her breath. Wilfred peered back at her pointing a sword in her direction, “Something alright with your friend there, mate? She seems to be having a fit!”

“She’s fine,” The man snapped back, motioning to his medallion, “Now, as you boys can see, I am a Witcher. The last thing I want to do is hurt you so if you could…”

Wilfred glanced at Travis and a silent message was passed between the two. Slowly, they lowered their swords, “Aye, the last thing we want is to be at odds with a Witcher so you and your…”

There was not a sound. Not a breath that was passed between them upon this earth that could have prepared them for their deaths at the talons of the griffon that flew from the sky and ended their existences with a fury of blood and bones.

Lilith took a deep breath as the world came rushing back into her field of vision. A hand was on her throat and she was on the ground, staring up at a starry sky, “They surrendered.” A voice snarled in her ear, “They surrendered, and you killed them.”

“They threatened our lives, Geralt.” She snapped back, her amber eyes flashing dangerously, “I would have killed them anyways. Better them dead here and now and save the countless lives of those who would have traveled these woods.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes but removed his gloved hand from her neck, allowing her to push up on her one good arm, glaring at the Witcher. “I’m starting to regret letting you live, Lilith.” He said as he mounted Roach, allowing her to take his hand. She did without a word as the two of them continued their journey through the woods south

A pregnant silence filled the air as they rode, Seraphina never far behind as a cold breeze whispered through the air, “I do not like death.”

Geralt let out a dry laugh, “For a woman who claims to not like death, you have a very funny way of showing it.”

Lilith remained quiet for a minute, “My mother she…died when I was young. When my daughter died, I wanted to bring her back. I went to the woman who lived in the cabin before me, Ophelia. She was a healer. I thought she could save her. We only saved her soul. Her body could not be saved. For my misdeeds against death, I lost my arm and Ophelia lost her own life. That is why she resides in the owl.”

“It’s selfish of you,” Geralt pointed out, “Witches are vain and jealous creatures. You are obsessed with trying to outsmart death. Every single witch I have met has tried to outwit the grave.” 

He could feel Lilith’s eyes boring holes into his back, “It’s not selfish of me to save my own daughter, Geralt. She was only five when she left this world.” She snapped back, “What was selfish was my husband to take my daughter away from me when she was practically a baby. What’s selfish is that there are people who try and rid the world of women like me because we are different. We posses these powers…” She went silent for a moment before speaking again, “And they hate us because of it.”

Geralt was quiet for a moment, “Yennefer went on to serve the Nilfgaardians,” He replied as Roach continued his forward gait, “There are plenty of well-respected witches.”

“And even more who are hunted,” Lilith responded, wrapping her arm around Geralt’s waist, “Those who have chosen not to act in favor of the Empire are cut down like diseased cattle.”

“Your mother,” Geralt pushed, “She was…like you?”

Lilith remained quiet for a moment, “From the stories my father told me, we had similar abilities. She could read the stars, take bits and pieces and from there, conjure relics of the past and whispers of the future. I never knew if she could control creatures as I could. Ingrid has that power, but with one foot in life and another in death, she only can see so much.”

“You rely on Ingrid?”

“As much as I can. She sees things that may come to pass. Getting to Toussaint and reclaiming my title will ease the wheel forward.”

“Then you know of your fate?”

“Fate is never set in stone, Geralt. Even the worst soothsayer will tell you that fate can be changed and is, every single time we draw breath. Those who claim to know the future are fools and liars.”

“What about prophecy?” He questioned, making the woman clutching onto his waist laugh lightly.

“Prophecy can be literal or figurative, depending on your interpretation. According to the Church of the Great Sun’s literature, we have already faced apocalyptic disasters that should have brought the end of the known world by their prophecies; yet here we are, riding through a swamp talking about fate, both very much alive.” 

“You have a fair point,” Geralt, “But what may be someone else’s apocalyptic event may just be a brief brush with a stinging nettle for you. Who’s to say we haven’t already seen several of these events and we have walked through the fire?”

“A blessing and a curse, I believe,” Lilith mused, “To know of one’s demise as they watch others around them pass, only to be struck down with it themselves.”

“We are speaking of disease, yes?” Geralt said, allowing himself to slip in and out of his Witcher senses to listen ahead.

“Disease, famine, drought…You name it.” Lilith responded with a little dry chuckle. “Humanity came with all the bells and whistles of pain.”

“That’s why someone invented ale,” Geralt replied with a smirk, narrowing his eyes as torch light flickered in the distance, “I see something.”

“I’ll send Ingrid ahead,” Lilith responded, her body stiffening at the sound of possible conflict, “She may be able to see what lies ahead.”

Geralt pulled the reins back on Roach and the mount slowed, “No need. They’re Nilfgaard, probably a traveling band of merchants or soldiers. Best to put your head down though.”

Lilith nodded and lowered her eyes as they approached the band. In the flickering torchlight, they could see a group of men and women in bright garb, milling about a half circle of caravans pointed towards the swamp to act as a barrier.

“Hail, Strangers!” One of the men greeted them warmly as the travelers approached, “Be you ruffians or thugs?”

“A Witcher just passing through,” Geralt responded, watching the group suspiciously, “These woods aren’t safe after nightfall. What brings you out this far on the road so late?”

A woman spoke this time, her accent thickly hinting at the Northern Islands, “We are a traveling troupe of performers. We were supposed to be out of these woods before the sun set, but our wagon broke an axel and we were forced to make camp here.” Her eyes drifted to the woman who clung to the Witcher’s clothing, “You have a damsel in distress there, Witcher?”

“A friend,” He replied coldly, “May we join you?”

The first man nodded and Geralt nudged Roach forward and then dismounted, helping his companion from the saddle, “Thank you.” Lilith finally spoke, turning her face towards the group finally. Amber eye sparkled in the firelight like the hottest of the coals, the light catching the blood on her skin.

“Miss, I don’t mean to pry but…” The man who had spoken to them pointed at her face, “But what happened to you?”

Lilith merely pursed her lips and allowed her gaze to drift into the fire, “An accident, I can assure you.”

The pregnant, uneasy silence was one that Lilith was not accustomed to, the nervousness of the people around her putting her on edge. An owl called out in the darkness, making Lilith to turn her attention to the trees, “Not a great place for a Witcher and his companion to be found,” The Skellige woman pointed out, taking a long draw from her mug, “Why are you two out here so late?”

“We are headed to Toussaint. I have to deliver this woman safely there,” Geralt replied as the tension was eased by the question that hung in the air.

“That’s actually where we’re headed,” Another performer piped up, “We were heading that way from the Summer Solstice festival in Fisherman’s Reach.”

Instantly, both Geralt and Lilith froze, “When were you there?” She asked, leaning forward, trying to keep her lack of appendage in the shadows. “We were just passing through there.”

“About a fortnight ago,” The performer said, rubbing his chin, “We arrived early and didn’t get nearly the coin that we expected. We stayed only till this morning and decided to try our luck in Toussaint. The baron of Fisherman’s Reach is a drunken fool, didn’t even allow us to perform our newest production, The Dragon Sorceress. Said that if we had performed it, he would have all of our heads detached from our bodies and held outside the keep.”

Lilith remained quiet, taking in this information. They had not heard of the murder of Bastian’s wife, but their mention of the Dragon Sorceress intrigued her. She decided to keep this to herself as a shape emerged from one of the caravans.

“I thought I heard the sounds of a nightingale,” A sharp voice pierced the night as all heads turned to see the newcomer who had come forth. She was tall, slender with ashen hair and long features, pale as the moon, “Hello little ones, who may I ask, are you?”

“A Witcher and his companion, Miranda.” The Skellige woman replied, still watching them warily.

“I see the Witcher,” Miranda said, walking forward, “I am far more interested in this creature in front of me.” Her eyes landed directly on Lilith, watching her intently. Violently stormy blue irises glittered like starlight as they watched the witch intensely, “Hello, pet. I thought I smelled magic.”

Lilith finally turned to meet the other woman’s eyes and she recognized the sorcery behind them, whispering secrets of the universe to her. “I am Lilith,” She said finally, “You are part of this troupe?”

The woman’s face turned up into a smile and she gestured to herself, “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Miranda of Oxenfurt, the Soothsayer for Redanian kings and paupers alike.”

“Lilith,” The other sorceress greeted back as the woman lunged forward and took her hand in her own. She flipped her palm to the sky and began to trace the lines in her skin with her long fingers.

“A woman who is wrought with mystery and fate, it seems.” She replied after a moment, dropping her hand, “May I see your other one?”

Geralt moved forward to intervene, but Lilith merely shrugged her shoulder into the light, allowing the sleeve of her dress to hang limply, “I’m afraid you will get nothing from that hand.”

Miranda blinked in surprise and then turned back to the Witcher, “What is a Witcher doing in the company of The Earth Shaker?” 

“I’m sorry, come again?” Lilith tried to make sense of the comment but found herself at a loss for words. 

“The woman with one arm will shake the world.” The sorceress said, “She will bring armies to their knees with a single wave of her hand. A crown of bones upon her brow, she will break the oldest mountains with her breath and drain the deepest seas with her words.”

“What are you talking about?” Lilith snapped back angrily, “I should strike you down for bestowing such a curse on me!” She stood and glared at the other woman, “I know of you, Miranda Belmont. You were gathering with the Lodge at the same time as me. We all know of the stories of The Earth Shaker but that prophecy was NEVER about me. I was not born with one arm and if you looked past your damned cards and palm lines, you will realize who I am!”

Miranda looked like she had been struck sharply, stumbling back as she blinked surprise from her eyes, “My dear…You are not Lilith Dupont?”

Lilith nodded, “You knew me before the coup. Phillipa was so wrapped up with finding Ciri, she never bothered to look beyond her own nose to see what we all could have been.”

“Last I saw you, you were in the basement, in chains…you were mad. They all said you would kill yourself in a fit. The owls…Oh gods, the creatures you would call…Then Bastian…” Miranda shook her head and looked up at her former colleague, “I am sorry for assuming. Come with me, I wish to take you into my caravan.” Miranda ushered the witch towards her caravan. Lilith threw a look back and Geralt, his hand hovering dangerously close to his sword.

“I can’t,” She replied finally, “I mustn’t…”

Miranda shrugged, “At least allow me to offer you clothing for your journey. Your dress looks like it has been through a war.”

Lilith inhaled sharply, finally nodding for Geralt to stand down, “Very well, after you.” She followed the sorceress into her caravan, the taller woman closing the door behind them. The cabin was small and dingey, not what Lilith would have expected from the woman who stood before her.

“I had always heard stories of the Witch of Fisherman’s Reach, but never realized it was you.” Miranda said, her back to Lilith as she rustled through overflowing trunks that had seen better day, “The Lodge, the world, had come to believe you had passed, according to your late husband.” She turned to face the woman, “Your daughter, she…?”

A tight-lipped smile crossed her face, “Dead, unfortunately. Bastian killed her.”

Miranda let out a sharp whistle from between her teeth, “Pity. When we arrived in Fisherman’s Reach, I was hoping to see your face. When they told us Bastian had remarried and a witch skulked in the woods, I never put two and two together.

Lilith bit back a laugh. Miranda had never been the sharpest witch she had ever met, too much time staring into mirrors, reciting incantations had made her brain turn south. However, the fact that she hadn’t jumped to the conclusion far earlier was beyond Lilith. 

“Here you are, my dear.” Miranda pulled a shirt and pants from a trunk and passed it to Lilith. She took it with a nod of thanks and with Miranda’s help, removed the dress from her body. Miranda’s hands lingered over the scar tissue on her shoulder, “What happened to you, Lilith?”

“It’s a long story,” She said stiffly, shrugging on the shirt and loosing her curls from material as she shook it into place. The pants went on next and she then shrugged on the shoes she had been wearing before. Not practical, but at least she could walk around.

“I just wish you would trust me enough to tell me!” Miranda said, exasperated, “I just want to help you!”

Lilith paused for a second, “There will be soldiers coming from Fisherman’s Reach soon, I’m sure of it. Tell them you never saw us. That’s how you can help me.” With that, she opened the door and nodded at the performers, “I hate to inform you that we must depart for the evening. Geralt?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” He responded in a facetious tone of voice as he mounted Roach, offering his hand to the one-armed woman, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Stay safe on these roads, Geralt of Rivera. Keep the woman with you safe.” Miranda called from her caravan, “She is the last of her line.”

Geralt watched the woman for a moment and then turned back to the woman who had just wrapped her arm around his waist. Her bloodline was that of the Dupont lineage, but he doubted this was what the witch spoke of. Dread settling into his belly, regret being driven into every hoofbeat, they again returned to the road to face whatever lay before them.


	6. Entangled

The body of Margaret lay on a pedestal, flowers adorning her long, mousy brown hair, her garb that of her family. The Northwood crest lay on her neck, coins covering her eyes. The blood had been scrubbed from her face, body, and hair and her belly still showed the pregnancy that would never be. The halls of the chapel were silent as the tombs themselves, deep under the earth of Fisherman’s Reach. The service had ended hours ago, yet Bastian sat in the pews, legs splayed, elbows on knees, head in hands, lost in thought. The bottle that he had brought with him had been drained long ago, but still the anger he felt would not leave his chest.

The doors of the chapel were pushed open, making Bastian jump. He scrambled to his feet as Titus walked into the sacred halls, his eyes stony and menacing. “I know she did this, Father.” Bastian’s voice shook as he said it, “We let that fucking Dupont CUNT back into this fort and she killed my wife.”

“Easy, Bastian. We are in a church,” His father said evenly, looking at the body of Margaret. “I have already sent men into the forest after her and the Witcher, but once the Nilfgaardians know of her treachery and of her powers, she will hang.” 

“She’s been dead, Father.” Bastian snapped back, “I watched her run into those woods and never come out again, she was dead. What will she do when she returns to Toussaint and claims her title?”

“We know she is prone to the same madness Isla possessed,” Titus countered, “In fair time, she will show that madness to the world. There is no way that they would allow a woman of such fragile mind and body to sit on the Council.”

“But my son is dead,” Bastian wept, not bothering to keep the grief from his voice, “My chance of having a Northwood ascend was taken from me!”

“But not from me,” Titus said cordially, “I was going to tell you this in private, but I may as well tell you now. I have wed a woman who will bear me many heirs.”

Bastian felt as if he had been slapped in the face, “Father…I…” 

Titus raised a hand to silence his son, “It is clear to me now that your mother’s incompetence was passed down to you at a young age. Damned woman. I should have never allowed myself to take on her child!” 

Bastian chose not to speak, instead keeping his eyes trained on Margaret’s body, “Nevertheless, the wrong will be righted once I have placed a new child in my wife’s belly. Let us pray that it is not too late for me.” He flicked his eyes toward the back of the chapel, “Now, the only question that remains is what we shall do in repercussion to this Toussaint whore?”

“I have already sent my best men after her and the Witcher. The first Nilfgaardian post they come across, they will tell them of her actions and they too will join in the hunt for this horrid witch.”

Quick as a whip, Titus whipped out a hand and struck his son, making him cry out in surprise and pain, “Stupid boy! They will not be fast enough! We must send men down to Toussaint and warn Jacque that a woman is coming, impersonating his daughter. The fool doesn’t know the city and she will end up falling right into our trap. Once we get her, we strip her paperwork and behead her as a murderess.”

Bastian glanced over at his father and frowned, “The men on the road will find her first though. We can bring her back here and torture her for what she has done.”

Titus smirked at his son, picked up the bottle that sat on the ground and took a long swallow, the Dupont label indicating the wine was from the family that they sought to destroy. “No, I want her to march into Toussaint and have her father watch as she is beheaded. He won’t even realize that it’s his own flesh and blood, which makes the victory so much sweeter.”

Bastian cocked his head to the side and then stood, “I shall send men to Toussaint to stop them then.”

Titus grunted, standing alongside his son, “No need. I have men on the move who are heading towards Toussaint who will deliver the seal of the Northwood family to the Marquee. Once he sees it and is assured that Lilith is dead, there will be no contest to the death of Margaret. Have you sent word to her family?”

“No, not yet,” Bastian admitted, glancing at the casket once more, “I was going to send it once the funeral rites are complete. If they wish to come and collect their daughter’s remains, then they are more than welcome to.”

“Again, your foolish mother’s influence.” Titus said with a shake of his head, “I will send word to her family and there will be no doubt that they will rise up to help us.”

“With what army?” Bastian asked with a scoff, “Her family was never well endowed with their own men.” 

“Her father will surely rise up and rally the support of her family. They wouldn’t turn down the summons for the revenge of their own daughter.” 

Bastian pondered the words, “I do believe I will send a letter then.” He said finally, a hint of sobriety appearing in his face, “I will write my deepest condolences to the family and ask for their support in bringing the murderess to trial.”

With a final nod, the baron of Fisherman’s Reach turned on his heels and walked from the chapel, leaving the older man at the foot of the casket. The silence settled in around him and Titus walked up to the casket, laying a hand on the corpse’s cheek, “Oh my dear, I could not have asked for this to go better,” He whispered into the thick stillness that settled around them, “You will be a martyr, I promise you that.”

* * *

“Toussaint cannot actually be that far, can it?”

“When was the last time you’ve traveled?”

Lilith paused for a moment and thought about it. The two had been on horseback for almost two days, wandering through the forested road that would take them to Toussaint. The environment around them had changed drastically since leaving, the trees becoming darker and thicker as they traversed south.

“Be mindful of what lurks in the shadows,” Geralt told her as Ingrid’s owl clung to her mother’s arm. She clenched the haunches of Roach tightly with her legs as they lazily walked down the well-worn road, Ingrid watching the path before them.

“You forget I can control them,” Lilith quipped back as Geralt looked around them.

“You forget that your magic is spotty at best and you cannot handle yourself in a fight.” Geralt replied as the woman behind him grew quiet. Geralt merely smirked at the silence as they continued on, Ingrid chuffing as if she understood him. She flew off into the darkness, her cries echoing through the trees, “Didn’t you say the more intelligent the creature, the harder it is to control?”

“I choose not to answer that,” Lilith responded icily, “You should have paid more attention.”

“I fail to see how remembering every little detail about you is important.”

“It’s important because…”

Geralt clapped his hand over her mouth to silence her and slowed Roach, “Stop, I hear something.”

The woods seemed to grow thicker around them as they both listened, “Where is Seraphina?”

“I do not know,” Lilith admitted as the snapping of branches made both of their heads turn, “Geralt…”

“Stay here,” Geralt snapped, sliding from Roach’s back. Unsheathing his steel sword, they waited on baited breath for whatever lay in wait for them. It didn’t take very long for the Giant Centipede to come crawling from the woods. Lilith screamed as Geralt dodged out of the way, the creature rearing up on its back legs to strike. The witch didn’t think twice, jumping from Roach and dodging the creature to get to a safe distance.

Turning around, she watched Geralt take another swing at the monster, the creature spitting poison at the Witcher, “Begone,” She whispered, allowing herself to speak the word into the wind. Instantly, the creature stopped its aggressive movements, turning to face the woman who stood before it, hand outstretched in the hopes to sway it. The centipede watched Lilith for a moment, seeming to sway with her movements. “Come now, go back to your home.” She whispered, keeping her amber eyes trained on the monster that stood before her, “Leave us be.”

The Giant Centipede seemed to draw great interest in the witch and on all of its legs, scurried over to her, watching her intently with many eyes, “Leave us be,” She repeated, keeping her arm raised to keep space between her and creature, “Go back to where you came from.”

Taking a step back, Lilith attempted to send the beast on its way. However, as she did this, her foot put pressure on a branch, sending a rippling crack through the otherwise silent woods. This was enough to break the spell. Like a switch was thrown, the monster lunged forward, its maw opened to devour its prey.

“Lilith!” Geralt yelled, trying to put as much distance between where he stood and the woman. However, it was too late. The creature had struck, piercing her arm with its fangs. It drew back for a second attack as Lilith fell to the ground, writhing as if she was having a fit. Geralt didn’t even have time to react as a Griffon’s shriek echoed through the woods, talons meeting the chitinous top of the centipede. The monster reared back in surprise, trying to get at the beast, but Seraphina kept herself just out of reach as Geralt continued running forward, slamming his sword into the soft underbelly of the centipede. With a horrifying cry, the monster fell to the ground, wriggling as it died. Once it was truly dead, Geralt turned his attention back to the witch on the ground. He ran to help her, but the Griffon stood between him and Lilith, acting as a guard.

“I have to get her to a healer,” Geralt tried to sway Seraphina but she would have none of it as she flapped her wings in irritation, “She needs help!”

Seraphina seemed to finally understand what he was saying and stood down, allowing for the Witcher to scoop the unconscious women into his arms, riding off into the trees in search for aid.


	8. Blood in Feathers

“Lilith, are you awake?”

Daylight poured into the room as the witch groaned and opened her eyes. It felt as if scorpions were nesting on her tongue and her head throbbed. She lay in a simple bed, a blanket bunched up around her feet. She sat up slowly, wincing as pain ran down her ride, “What…happened?”

A woman stood by her bedside, watching her carefully, “The Witcher who brought you here said that you ran into a centipede in the woods outside of Boughbright. I always tell the mayor that he needs to do something about them, but he refuses to do anything! Julia, by the way.”

“Lilith,” She responded, her voice froggy and hoarse, “How long have I been here?”

“Oh, not long. I’d give it…14 hours or so. Fortunately, the poison seemed to slow in your veins, so we were able to save your other arm.” She nodded to Lilith’s bandaged arm and then turned back to busying herself around the room. “The Witcher has been asking about you all night. He does seem to care about you, at least a little bit.”

“Don’t confuse caring with coin,” Lilith said with a little laugh, “He’s in it for the money.”

Julia pursed her lips, “Darling, nobody stays around just for the money. I saw it in his eyes, he cares.”

Lilith made a face and then stretched out her legs, “Have you seen an owl or Griffon?” She asked, attempting to stand from the bed. Her knees wobbled for a moment and she went tumbling, obviously still weak. Julia helped her up and put her back in bed.

“No owl or Griffon. You are also too weak to move yet. Give the potion another 12 hours and you will be right as rain. I’ll go tell your counterpart that you’re awake. He wants to see you.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked from the room, leaving Lilith to her own devices. She leaned back on the itchy pillow and for the first time since waking, took inventory of the room she lay in. Every square inch was covered in drying herbs, coating the room in a medicinal scent. Some were familiar to her, but most she had never seen.

The door opened and a familiar silver haired man stood at the threshold, catching her attention. Geralt kept his yellow eyes trained on the woman, his gaze drifting to her bandaged arm. Her wavy hair had become curly in the fray of her fitful sleep, strands sticking to her face. In the light of the morning, he could see freckles on her tawny skin, the sunlight streaming through the window catching the honeyed notes in her hair to match her eyes. “What you did was selfish and you could have easily been killed.” Were the first words out of his mouth as he stepped over the threshold.

“I wanted to help, so don’t lecture me about being selfish,” Lilith snapped back, wincing as the words echoed through her head, “Can you bring me some water? I feel like something dead is living in my mouth.”

Wordlessly, Geralt handed her a mug sitting on a table. Wincing, she took it with bandaged hand and drank deeply, “You could have died.” He repeated, waiting for the witch to finish drinking. Finally, she put the cup down and glared at the Witcher, amber eyes flashing angrily.

“I would have easily sent it away.”

“Your magic is weak. This is why you need to return to Phillipa. She would be able to help you.”

Lilith looked down at the cup in her hand, “Do you realize that I was treated worse at the hands of Phillipa than I was by the hands of Bastian? She would have killed me, sent me down to a lab to be autopsied and studied if she had her way. When the other witches refused, she had me sent down to the dungeons and subjected to tests against my will, out of sight, out of mind. She would send me into fits of madness without a second thought.”

Geralt sat on the foot of the bed and the two merely watched one another as he finally turned back to her, “You had no plans on going back to the Lodge, were you?”

Lilith bit her lip, finally looking back at the silver haired man, “No. Once you left, I planned on regaining my title and using the funds to look for my mother’s people. If there is anyone that can help me, it would be them.”

“Going into the Korath desert is a death wish. You would die within an hour of stepping foot there.”

Lilith took a deep breath and closed her eyes, tears falling down her cheeks, “Geralt, you do not realize what it’s like to live ostracized from the world, not knowing if a single fit will kill someone or an entire village.”

“The ostracization is familiar, I assure you,” Geralt responded with a dry little chuckle, “But your powers…”

She waved her hand dismissively, “If I don’t learn about these powers, I will fall to the same fate as my mother. If I live my life in isolation, my house will fall. I must go and find out what I can.”

Geralt glanced over at the door, “You will need someone to watch your back.”

She turned her face to Geralt, “Are you offering yourself up?”

“Is the pay favorable?”

“I can make it worth your while, I promise you that.”

Geralt nodded silently, stealing one more glance at the witch, “You thinking about what Miranda said?”

She didn’t move, merely staring down at her cup, “Yes, I am. She said there are still witches in the East who control the chaos magic. My mother’s people, I’m sure.” 

“Do you think they would be willing to help an outsider?” Geralt questioned, making Lilith turn her attention to the windows.

“I…don’t know. I can only hope that they will help me once they know that I can perform magic like that.” Lilith shrugged and glanced over at Geralt, “I can only hope. Right now, my eyes are on Toussaint. Did you send the raven to your contacts?”

He nodded and pulled a piece of paper from within his pocket, “Jaskier will meet us at The Resting Place outside of the city walls.”

“That’s the seediest tavern this side of the river!” Lilith complained, “My father said that if a man came from The Resting Place, he would have his head. It’s a place for ruffians and thugs.”

“We don’t have much of a choice, Lilith,” Geralt responded, “As soon as you are well, we’ll return to the road and…”

The door burst open, Julia storming into the room, a worried expression on her face, “There is a group of soldiers outside, looking for a woman named Lilith. They want to bring her back to Novigrad for trial. Something about witchcraft and murder?” 

Lilith opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Julia nodded in confirmation and then strolled over to the bed, “I once heard of a witch in Toussaint that could control the beasts of the fields and sky. That cannot possibly be your mother, could it?”

“I…” Lilith began to say, but Julia merely shook her head.

“I won’t reveal your whereabouts, I can assure you of that. But you must get to the port and find safe passage to Toussaint. The roads are crawling with soldiers holding the Northwood crest, probably from here to the city.”

“Shit,” Geralt said gruffly, standing from the bed, “We need to leave, now.”

“Come with me,” Julia walked over to the bed and helped Lilith stand, “There is a secret passageway out of the city down by the docks.” The witch wobbled with the healer as they walked from the room and down a hallway. Down the steps they descended into the basement of the house. It was dark and dingy, but in the light of a single lantern, they saw a small wooden door in the earthen wall, “You must leave before they find you.”

“Why are you helping us?” Geralt questioned as Julia pride the door open. The woman turned and placed her fingers at the necklace on her breast.

“You think I saved your friend on skill alone, Witcher?” She asked, “If there are soldiers here, it won’t take long for Nilfgaard to be interested and send witch hunters. If they find me, I will be burned at the steak, even for what little magic I do possess.”

“You have been a true friend,” Lilith said, looking down at the necklace she wore. Sure enough, emblazoned on the surface of the silver was a small bird that indicated her true alliance, “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet.” Julia finished prying the door open and allowed them to slide through, “Don’t stop for anything, not until you have made it to the docks. Ask for Silas, he will take you to Toussaint.”

With a final nod, the torch was passed to Geralt and the door slammed closed behind them, leaving them in the yawing cavern. “Come on.” Geralt wrapped his arm around Lilith’s waist and helped her move down the corridor, the dirt soft and damp beneath their feet. They walked as fast a Lilith’s legs would allow them to go, the sound of people above their head. Lilith heard her name on the tongue of a soldier as they passed underfoot, asking someone if they had seen her or Geralt pass. The civilian confirmed that they had seen a silver haired man with a woman thrown over his back gallop into the village the night before. The man thanked her for her time and then his voice disappeared into the fray.

“They’ll find us,” Lilith murmured in a hushed voice, “There is no way we’ll make it.”

“Have faith,” Geralt replied simply as they continued along, the scent of the sea piercing the air as they got closer to their target. Finally, the flitting light of the sun filtered through a grate and Geralt pushed It aside, allowing them to exit the darkness. The stench of the port made Lilith wrinkle her nose, but she didn’t complain as they walked through the streets, trying to keep their heads down. Unfortunately, since it was hard to disguise a one-armed woman and silver haired man, they were instantly spotted, eyes turning to watch them go.

“Over there!” A sharp voice carried through the air as Geralt tried to make his companion move quicker. A man in deep blue armor was running towards them, sword unsheathed, followed closely by seven or eight other men.

“Lilith, you need to move!” Geralt snarled under his breath as the witch seemed to slow even further, “I don’t think you want to die today, and I am certainly not interested in joining you on your demise.”

“Stop.” She whispered, making Geralt glance down at her, “Give me a minute, I can’t go on.”

“We have to reach the ship, Lilith!” Geralt responded as he pushed past onlookers. However, with the added weight, he slowed, merely grabbing Lilith and hoisting her over his shoulder as he broke into a quick gait.

“Stop, you!” He paid no attention to the voices as Lilith squirmed against him.

“Geralt, let me go!” She snapped, “I can stop them!”

“You can hardly walk, let alone stop them!” He snarled in her ear, “We have to find a ship!”

“No,” Was the final thing that was uttered as she went stiff as a board in his arms, her eyes rolling back into her head, her breathing slowed. A shriek was heard from overhead and Geralt watched in amazement as the Griffon flew from the sky, talons ready to strike as it picked up a soldier and dropped him into the port, his heavy armor dragging him to the bottom of the sea. The remaining soldiers dove for the ground as Seraphina swooped back in for another attack, her eyes unseeing as Lilith and her familiar became one.

“Archers!” A voice was heard as Geralt turned on his heel and broke into a sprint, leaving the fray behind them. He prayed that Lilith could at least hold them off long enough for them to find transport to Toussaint. He grabbed a petrified man by the collar, pulling him towards his face.

“Where is Silas?!” He demanded as the man raised one finger and pointed to a boat that was moored only meters away. Geralt threw the man to the side and ran the last few steps to the dock as men cowered for their lives as Seraphina flew overhead, her cries echoing through the village.

“I’m looking for Silas!” Geralt yelled at the sailors who were flat against the docks.

“Do you not see the Griffon above our heads, Witcher?! Kill the damned beast!” A man shrieked.

“Silas! Where is he?” Geralt tried to repeat the question as a man peered out from over the railing of the ship.

“I am Silas, Witcher!” He cried over the chaos as Lilith spasmed in his arms, a shriek of pure agony escaping her lips.

“We need safe passage to Toussaint! I can pay in crowns, but we need to go NOW.” Geralt raced up the gangplank of the ship and dumped Lilith on the deck, watching as she writhed on the deck, moans and screams echoing that of Seraphina. He turned around and watched in horror as Seraphina flew haphazardly through the air, arrows sticking from her body. She let out one last pitiful scream as a single arrow sailed through the air, piercing the Griffon in the eye. Like a rock dropped by a child, Seraphina plummeted from the sky, her broken body falling onto the docks, blood dripping from her mouth. 

With a scream to wake the dead, Lilith sat up, her eyes wild and insane, “SERAPHINA!” She screamed, jumping to her feet and rushing towards the docks. Geralt grabbed her by the waist and kept her from running back down the plank.

“WE NEED TO GO!” Geralt bellowed at Silas who finally understood the gravity of the situation. With a sharp whistle, his crew moved like a well-oiled machine, Geralt keeping Lilith at his side as tears rushed down her face, her features distorted by unabashed grief. The soldiers, for now, seemed more interested in regrouping than following the duo, and Geralt watched the smoke and listened to the screams of agony from the soldiers who continued to live but had been injured by Seraphina.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Lilith shrieked, trying to remove herself from Geralt’s grasp, “She needs me!”

“Seraphina’s dead, Lilith. And we will be too if you go back there.” Geralt growled in her ear, making her stop moving for a moment. The boat lurched away from the dock as the sailors began to prepare to get underway, “Come on, we’re going to Toussaint.”

“Seraphina…I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry…” Lilith’s knees buckled beneath her and Geralt allowed her to slip to the deck of the ship, Boughbright slipping away as the headed out to sea.


End file.
